I Thought My Dad Was Black

People always ask me what my hometown was like when my dad first moved there. To be honest, I don’t really know—I wasn’t born yet. But I often joke that Bardstown was made up of whites, blacks, and then my dad. That isn’t necessarily true, but you get the idea.

In fact, when my parents first moved to Bardstown, there was another Iranian living there. But, according to my mom, my dad really didn’t like him that much. Neither has told me why and I don’t know if I actually care. Since it’s not that important, I’m probably not going to ask, or perhaps I should.

Needless to say, by the time I was born there weren’t many people like my dad living in Bardstown. With the exception of two cross-country trips to California (we drove and that’s for another story), visits from relatives in Oklahoma City, and the occasional visit with my dad’s college buddies (remember Manu and the Persian Rat Pack), I wasn’t in regular contact with other Iranians.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was (yes, you’re picking up a pattern), but I was probably around four, as my memory tells me that my parents were divorced and I was in pre-school. That means it was at least 1986, and in this particular memory, my father was wearing a short sleeved shirt, which means it was probably when the weather was warmer.

I was deep in thought as my dad was driving me to my mother’s house. We were probably coming from the Montessori pre-school that I attended, but again I don’t remember that detail. On second thought, it could have all happened in 1987.

My mother lived—and still does—in the house my parents bought in 1978. When they divorced, my mother kept the house, while my father took the parcel of land across the road. He’s tinkered with remodeling and refurbishing a small cabin that sits on the property. In the last ten years, he’s made more progress than he did in the previous twenty. He’s made it livable, but just barely.

The house and the parcel of land with the cabin are a little more than five miles down Woodlawn Road, which branches off of Bloomfield Road, right in front of Nelson County High School. When my parents first moved out there you could count on one hand the amount of cars you’d pass on the road. That’s not even remotely the case today. Now, despite my mother’s house being at the apex of a blind curve that not only changes elevation, but also crosses a small creek, cars zip by at all times of the day. I’m surprised there haven’t been a lot of accidents, but screeching tires are a regular occurrence.

My dad and I had just left the two lane portion of Woodlawn Road and were heading down into the valley where my mother’s house sits. The road is just wide enough for two cars to pass, if and only if both drivers slow down and utilize the gravel shoulder.

We had just crested the first of two hills before heading around a small bend, crossing a small bridge and hitting the longest flat stretch in that part of the county that led to my mother’s house. In that moment I finally mustered up the courage to ask what I had been thinking. It could have been on my mind for a while. Or maybe it was more of an impulse, because as my memory has it, we had just passed a black family headed in the opposite direction and my father flashed a friendly wave—something everyone does on a country road.

“Daddy, are you black?” I asked timidly.

You see, in my four or five year old mind, my father couldn’t have been anything else. He obviously wasn’t white, he was too dark for that. And since I really had no other frame of reference and because so many black families were friendly with my father, I concluded that he—and by proxy me, because even at that young age, I understood that whatever my father was, I was too—was black.

“No,” my father responded, part concerned, part curious, and slightly perturbed.

This was a time in my father’s life when he was under a great deal of stress. The combined elements of a recent divorce and the job of a public school teacher had put him on edge. Luckily, my curiosity didn’t strike the wrong nerve.

“Are you sure?” I shot back, convinced my father was lying. The logic I had spun in my young mind was solid and impeccable.

“Yes, David. I am sure.” He said calmly, returning to dividing his focus between the road and something deeper and more philosophical than I could have ever imagined.

I don’t remember if there was any conversation the rest of the drive—it was less than a mile to my mother’s house from that point. Surely, I had gone back to doing whatever it was before I asked the question. Maybe I was playing with GI Joe’s, which according to my father, I would sneak into school or soccer practice in my front pocket. Or perhaps I was imagining how I could convince my father he was actually black. Or maybe, I started to question my impeccable logic: if he wasn’t white and he wasn’t black, then what the hell was he? What on earth am I? Wait, could that have been the genesis of my lifelong identity crisis?

I’ve never really talked to him about this moment and what it all meant. And I’d like to think he’d read this and call me to talk about it. But to be honest, my dad won’t be reading this unless I print it off and send it to him snail mail. (I’ve sent him the link to this blog twice and in the numerous conversations we’ve had since, he hasn’t commented. If he did, he’d probably call me an asshole or some other cuss word in the most loving tone anyone could ever use while uttering an expletive.)

All I am sure of is that he took my question well. He could have given me a lecture—like many Iranian parents, I’ve learned, are notorious for doing—about the greatness of being Iranian. Maybe it was the stress, maybe the question caught him off guard, or maybe it was something else altogether.

One explanation is at that time in the late 1980s, being Iranian wasn’t posh. So, maybe he feared that instilling in us an overbearing sense of pride in our Iranian-ness could have been dangerous. That’s partially why he didn’t teach us Farsi—emphasis on partially. But I think, more or less, it boiled down to the fact that to him he was human and nothing else mattered. He was indifferent to labels and even now when we have questions about identity, he balks at labeling himself Iranian.

“Does it make a difference?” I imagine him saying. It doesn’t. But it does.

Identity is important, but what I’ve learned is that we’re not limited to just one. And that’s what this is all about.


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